


The Unruffling of Feathers

by MerKat



Series: MerKat RPs [21]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alpha!Sherlock, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Wings, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Biting, Bottom John, Bottom Sherlock Holmes, Bottom!Sherlock, Christmas, Christmas Dinner, Christmas Fluff, Christmas Presents, Claiming, Cuddles, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Erections, Established Relationship, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Hand Jobs, Kissing, Knotting, Licking, Light Angst, Light Angst and Fluff, M/M, Marking, Mounting, Omega!John, Omegaverse, Parentlock, Public Sex, Scenting, Smut, Teasing, Top John Watson, Top Sherlock, Winged!John, Winged!Sherlock, Winglock, Wings, aulock, bottom!John, preening, top!John, top!Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-12
Updated: 2014-09-12
Packaged: 2018-02-17 08:57:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2304005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MerKat/pseuds/MerKat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/1959138">BUILDING A NEST</a> SEQUEL It’s Christmas time in the Holmes-Watson household, and Sherlock is, for once, trying to be ‘a bit good’ about it. Sort of.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Unruffling of Feathers

**Author's Note:**

> Apparently we just can't get away from this 'verse.

Sherlock was a brilliant actor. He could pretend calm when his children were ill and his ER-hardened mate was looking frazzled from over-working himself at the clinic he'd been hired at and Sherlock himself was panicking because he had no clue how to take care of sick children and an exhausted mate. He could feign the deepest sadness when talking to a suspect to whom the victim was related when he was buzzing on the inside with the excitement of a level eight case. He could adopt an expression of unparalleled interest when playing 'the dark side', as John liked to call it, when disguised as a novice criminal and plying his mentor for all her tips on how to run a slavery and prostitution ring, and all he wanted to do was be violently sick at the thought of his mate or their fledglings in the same position as the victims he was trying to save. But nothing had ever been as hard as hiding his eager anticipation this last week.

It hadn't occurred to him until after an argument with a Father Christmas impersonator how he could surprise his children this year. Initially, he had just been rather cross and 'accidentally' burned all the decorations and the tree in an 'experiment'. But after he'd done that, his children had come home from school and looked so crestfallen that John hadn't spoken to him until after that case had ended. And he realised he could surprise his three loved ones, if only he could continue to innocently sabotage every attempt at redecorating. For two weeks, he did just that. And on Christmas Eve, after John and Harriet and Hamish had gone to sleep, he snuck down to where he'd hidden his supplies for his surprise in 221C, and spent the night working and getting lost in the thought of what his family's faces would look like in the morning.

Hamish woke extra early. Harriet was still snoring softly in her bed. He stared at the ceiling a long moment. He wasn't sure if he should be excited or not. Father had said there was no such thing as Father Christmas. But he could hear movement in the front room. Quiet as he could, he slipped out of bed, wings flapping slightly as he shook sleep from himself.

He stole down the stairs, trying to keep from making any noise. The door was open just a crack. He pushed it open and gaped. The whole room had been done up, even better than before. A tree stood in one corner, fully decorated. Banners and ribbons hung on all the walls. There was even fake snow on the windowsill and a train making lazy circles around the base of the tree. Papa was curled up on a corner of the couch asleep, but he stirred as Hamish entered and gaped.

"Good morning, Hamish," Sherlock murmured, stretching his limbs as he stood from his spot on the couch. He'd barely straightened when his son impacted with his chest with seemingly uncontainable laughter, something that seemed to summon his sister because Harriet appeared less than a minute later.

"DADDY! DADDY! DADDY!" she cried, feathers in complete disarray. "Daddy, come look at what papa did!"

John rolled out of bed in an instant. For a moment worried that perhaps Sherlock had set something on fire, again. But then he heard his children’s laughter and headed out with a bemused look on his face. He looked around at the decoration and their fledglings literally fluttering with excitement and shook his head. Reaching out he caught Harriet and started preening her feather as he kissed Sherlock. “It’s wonderful, love.”

"Of course it is," Sherlock scoffed,watching his daughter escape his mate's fingers to join her brother in squealing over the presents at the base at the tree, all carefully wrapped in festive paper and wrapped in bows as useless as they were 'pretty'. Harriet was already trying to remove the bows so she could braid them into her hair and Hamish was having what amounted to a seizure trying to decide what to open first. But their expressions, the happiness and excitement on their faces, warmed his heart and a smile tugged at the corners of his lips as John moved towards their offspring to put a semblance of order to the morning. Still feeling a bit groggy from over-sleeping, he eased back onto the couch to watch his family.

John picked up a cracker and took it to Sherlock to open it with him. His alpha rolled his eyes, but pulled his end anyway. Picking up the paper hat, John put it on his mess of curls and kissed his cheek. “Thank you.”

Sherlock mumbled something and John went to help his children. They were soon tearing into their presents under John’s supervision. A few minutes later, a warm mug of tea was being pressed into his hand and he smiled up at Sherlock as he went back to occupying his corner of the couch with his own mug.

Hamish pulled out one from behind the tree and offered it to his Daddy. “This one is for you.” John raised an eyebrow as he took it and looked at Sherlock, noting that he had turned slightly anxious as John opened it.

Sherlock was always better at shopping for Christmas presents than he was at shopping for birthday presents, more because he didn’t know how to express his appreciation for his family’s birthdays than anything else. Christmas was just a time to get together as a family, one of five days a year that he refused to work a case (in addition to the twins’ birthday, John’s birthday, his own, and their anniversary). But still, he was always worried with his inability to properly express sentiment that he would chose the wrong gift for his mate (his children were still young enough and still inexperienced enough to appreciate most any intelligent gift). This year, after John had been forced to leave his lockpick set, a steel one Sherlock had simply handed John their second case together, at a crime scene, the detective had special-ordered a tungsten set of lockpicks even nicer than the ones the alpha himself had. The set contained all the picks needed for common commercial and residential locks, as well as for cuffs. He still had to train his omega how to properly and quickly use them all, and he especially looked forward to the handcuff lesson, one he planned on making sure his doctor could escape even while under duress. But for now, he just waited for his mate to say something or make some sort of facial expression so he could gauge how well his gift was received.

John couldn't help the grin that bloomed on his face. Only his mate would think of lockpicks as a Christmas present. He wrapped one wing around him. "Thank you," he said sincerely. 

Harriet landed on their laps. "Here Papa, this is from Hamish and me." Hamish hung back a little, half hiding under his wings with nervousness. 

The genius’s mind was already deducing the gift from his children before he was able to tell it not to do so: lightweight, paper, book shape and feel, but not heavy enough to be so.

“Just open it, papa!” Harriet scolded and the corners of John’s lips twitched. Just barely resisting the urge to roll his eyes, Sherlock deftly picked the tape from the wrapping paper and unfolded his present from his coverings. It was actually a book. Well, a homemade one at least, the front and back covers merely laminated paper and the holes punched along the proper side bound in twine. On the front was a drawing of the solar system below the words ‘PAPA’S ASTRONOMY BOOK’. He glared over at his mate.

“You let them read your blog,” he accused. 

John laughed. “Actually they found it on their own. Came home to find Hamish had guessed my password and they were on my blog. They thought it would be a good present.”

Hamish was hiding further under his wings. “He doesn’t like it, Harriet,” he muttered, retreating back towards the kitchen.

John gave Sherlock a look as he took Harriet. She seemed rather less concerned than her brother.

Sherlock stood with a gusty sigh and strode forward to swing his son up into his arms, gaining a loud squawk in his ear for his troubles.

“I never said that I did not like it, Hamish,” he informed loftily. “Knowledge is something I prize above most other things, but there is knowledge I have no need of and therefore do not care to retain. Astronomy is one of them.” He beckoned to his daughter and she started forward and then paused before fluttering up into his other arm, and after a moment, he had a child on each hip. “However, I recognise and appreciate the effort the both of you put into your gift. Thank you, Hamish and Harriet, for my Christmas present.” There was a pause and then two pairs of small wings flapped outwards and curled around both Sherlock and the twins, both children disappearing under the flurry of black-tipped gold feathers with a chorus of “You’re welcome, papa.”

John grabbed the camera and snapped a quick picture before getting up to kiss his mate. Hamish buried himself further into his papa's shoulder. "There's more presents," said John, smiling gently. 

Hamish's wings showed he was still uncertain as Sherlock put them down. Just then, there was a knock on the door and Mrs. Hudson swept in with a tray full of tea and cookies. Harriet nearly tackled her. 

“Merry Christmas!” Mrs Hudson greeted, easily shuffling through the mess on the floor to deposit her tray on the low table. “Sherlock, be a dear and go gather the presents on my kitchen table.”

“John--”

“No, Sherlock,” Mrs Hudson interrupted. “I quite clearly remember asking _you_ to gather the gifts. Now, if you please.” The alpha turned with a huff and was not quiet about his trip down the stairs, but everyone firmly ignored him and the elderly woman moved into the kitchen to snag several of the clean cups on the drying board. She could still remember, like a nightmare, what Baker Street had been like before the children had moved in. The mess! The experiments and the mold! And good heavens, the body parts! She’d almost fainted once when she’d overturned a bowl to find a finger underneath! But Sherlock, as messy as he was and as much as he sometimes appeared in his dressing gown in her kitchen, confessing his worry that he was a bad mate and father, was actually rather brilliant at both. He had his moments, but so did they all. As the small family settled into their couch and chairs, Mrs Hudson hummed carols to herself as she played mother.

Hamish was still subdued, but opened up more at the relentless good cheer. The presents were passed out and soon enough he was quietly playing with some dolls as his sister tore around the flat with her own toys. 

Finally, it was time to bundle up the kids and go to the Holmes family dinner. They were picking up Harry on the way; over the last few years, Mummy Holmes had taken her under her wing and considered her as much a part of the family as John. There was still a mutual distrust between Mycroft and Sherlock, but the elder obviously adored his niece and nephew, and Hamish especially seemed to be good at getting him to open up. 

Both Harriet and Hamish became nearly impossible to manage when they arrived to his mother’s house, fluttering about in giddy excitement because of the number of presents stuffed under the massive tree in the parlor, and Sherlock didn’t bother trying. They would calm in time. And John was much better, much more patient than he, with this sort of thing. There was a considering look in Harry’s eye as she frowned at a glass of wine and Mycroft was at her side in an instant, looping an arm with hers, voice a low murmur against her ear. Pleased he would not have to deal with his mate’s sister’s alcoholism today, he decided that here, far enough from the city, he could indulge in his smoking habit. He turned around and found his mother directly behind him, grinning slyly.

“Hello, Sherly,” she greeted, voice amicable enough. But that meant nothing. Not to someone like him and his brother, not with how she raised them. “Come sit with your mother.” Despite the amount of exercise he inevitably got during his cases, Violet’s hand around his bicep was like steel, and he found himself seated at the dinner table, the first chair from the left of the head, where his mother, of course, sat. And Mycroft called _him_ dramatic.

Smiling and pleased that both Sherlock and Harry were being taken care of, John turned his attention to his children. Hamish fluttered up to Mycroft, the elder Holmes catching him as he talked to their aunt. Harriet was still tearing around the tree, but she launched herself at her Daddy hard enough that he had to catch his balance with his wings. 

"Oof," he grunted, smoothing her dress. To be honest, Harriet was a factor in their not having more children. Not that he didn't love them both, but there had already been two conferences with her teacher. "We talked about that, didn't we?" John asked gently. 

Harriet nodded, folding her wings. "Sorry."

He kissed the top of her head. "I know you're excited. And that's perfectly fine, okay?"

It was a gruelling seven minutes, but finally Sherlock was saved from his mother by his mate and their daughter joining the table, and then Mycroft with Hamish and Harry a minute later. Sherlock was forced one seat down so that his daughter could take his place at his mother’s left, and his son was directed to the seat at Violet’s right, Mycroft relegated to the seat across from Sherlock. The slow blink from the ginger-haired beta was as close to an eye roll as the British government could get for anyone who wasn’t his brother. As the two Watsons settled on either side of the two Holmeses, dinner was brought to the table and served, and Sherlock managed to occupy his mind and his mate with the puzzle and the goal of John reaching orgasm under the table with no one the wiser. Tricky, considering his mother was an alpha like he himself was, and therefore had a stronger sense of smell than Mycroft’s beta nose, but it was a challenge worth undertaking.

John managed not to choke on his peas as his alpha’s hand purposely drifted along his crotch. Nor did he stab him with his fork as he continued to grope him. He knew his mate had an exhibitionist streak a mile wide, but this was ridiculous. He fed Sherlock a bit and leaned into his ear. “No.”

Sherlock grinned and leaned over to copy his mate’s pose. “Yes,” he growled lowly, subtly releasing pheromones and feeling John’s cock harden under the tips of his fingers. His eyes flickered to where strong, sturdy fingers tightened around his omega’s knife and fork, and for a moment, it appeared as if he might be stabbed for his amorous intentions. But then he crooked his index finger and dragged the tip of his nail along where the head of John’s cock was pressed to his jeans, and his mate’s breath left his lips in carefully controlled, shuddering whisper.

When Sherlock got in this kind of mood no power in the universe could stop him. John tried to eat normally, for once glad for Harriet's chatter as his mate continued to touch him. After nearly eight years together Sherlock knew just how to excite him. 

Mycroft was still engaged in conversation with Harry, and Violet with Harriet and Hamish, and as long as Sherlock continued to eat with one hand, and stroke his mate with his other. John’s wings were twitching, stuck between dropping down to expose the undersides as they did during sex, and curling tight around him in a self-protective gesture. The scent of omega arousal was a low, sweet burn in his nose, and it was one of the more difficult things he’d ever done to not breathe deep. Even after years together, it was a scent he couldn’t get enough of, and he disguised a lick of his lips with an accidental ‘miss’ with his next bite of his dinner.

John found his legs spreading a bit. He rubbed his foot against Sherlock’s, knowing it would distract him as well, before offering his mate more food, looking him in the eyes. Knowing Sherlock, this might well end up being taken upstairs.

Sherlock rewarded his omega's thighs parting with another scrape of his fingernail, this time continuing all the way down the hard shaft. John shifted in his seat, nearly spilling the food on his spoon as he did so. Even so, as arousing as he knew his touch was to his omega, it still wasn't enough. Sipping his wine, the alpha ground the heel of his palm against the base of his mate's cock, barely managing to withhold a grin when John dropped his fork and the table collectively paused and turned to look at them.

“Slipped,” muttered John. “It’s delicious, Violet,” he smiled at her at the same as he stomped on Sherlock’s foot.

His mate, good doctor that he was, knew exactly _where_ to step for maximum pain. And it _was_ painful. But as everyone returned to their conversations, he was careful not to let the radiating pain show on his face or in the movements of his fingers and palm. Except to perhaps stroke and grind harder. John's fingers were trembling as he extra-carefully reached for his utensils again, his breath quiet and laboured as his fork shook slightly on its way to his mouth. Beneath his forearm, dense thighs were tightening and loosening rhythmically, and in the next moment, John was picking up his dinner roll, biting into it slowly as the skin around his eyes and his wings tightened, the fabric below Sherlock's fingers growing damp as he eased his mate through his orgasm with gentle sweeps of his fingertips and nails along denim.

Oh Sherlock was going to pay for that later. Still, John relaxed further into his seat. He reached his own hand under the table and palmed Sherlock's thick cock through his trousers. 

He couldn’t help the grin across his face, a mix of satisfaction from helping his omega reach his peak (in public, nonetheless), and of pleasure from those sturdy, knowledgeable fingers along his cock. John wanted to return the favour, and he would welcome it with open... legs. He decided to up the ante, a challenge to both his own control and his doctor’s abilities, and he joined Mycroft and Harry in their conversation. The fingers along his cock were quick and eager, as skilled in bringing him to the edge as they were with a scalpel, and it pulled deliciously at his concentration, forcing him to pay extra attention to each word and each sound that left his mouth.

John knew the kind of games Sherlock liked to play. Well that was fine by him. He squeezed his mates knot in mid sentence, watching the way his breath caught as he attempted to keep speaking normally. Mycroft probably knew exactly what they were up to, but at least he was too polite to say anything. He offered another bite of food as he slid his hand slowly up the thickness.

Mycroft was eyeing him, or rather, John, suspiciously, and Sherlock continued to eat as steadily as he was able, continued to speak as steadily as he was able. It was all part of the game that John would use his knot against him, and he wasn’t being shy about it. The alpha’s extra-sensitive knot was a weakness, filled with as many extra nerves as it was, and his omega was manipulating it with ease. The fact that it was trapped beneath layers of fabric meant that there was only stimulation along the swollen sides, and the lack of sensation along the bottom of his knot was teeth-grittingly frustrating. But he let it happen, enjoying this game they were playing too much to draw a stop to it. Sherlock wondered if John would finish him off or if he would draw his own vindictive pleasure from making his alpha wait until they returned home.

John felt how close his alpha was getting. Good. He withdrew his hand and smiled at Violet. "This is delicious. Thank you very much for having us."

It was a small battle with himself to not snarl at the loss of sensation along his swollen knot when John pulled his hand away just short of his peak. Although, an alpha’s orgasm was no where near as minimal in semen production as an omega’s, and his release would be a great deal more difficult to hide.

Violet looked up from her conversation with her two grandchildren to find her younger son and his mate looking at each other with the kind of eyes she remembered making with her omega back when they were first mated. Sometimes, she could only be a little envious of the passion her Sherlock and his John had, especially after being together for eight years and having such a handful as Harriet and Hamish for six of those years.

“Children, how would you like to stay with me tonight?” she asked, directing the question to her grandchildren, but making her voice loud enough for their parents to hear.

Hamish looked at his Uncle. "Will you stay?" he asked shyly. 

Harriet was more enthusiastic. "Can we?" she asked her parents. 

John smiled. "That's fine." He was eager to get his alpha home alone himself. He had a few ideas of what they could do with Christmas ribbon. But first Sherlock had to wait. 

**.oOo.**

Sherlock erection had barely dissipated by the time he and his mate tumbled through the front door of Baker Street nearly two hours after he’d brought John to orgasm under the table and through his jeans and pants. He would have had them leave directly after, but his omega was determined to prolong his suffering with acceptance of dessert, tea, and an excessively long snowball fight on the grounds, amidst sparse touches to his cock with no pattern of frequency or pressure. As a result, the alpha had remained achingly hard all during and after dinner, and he was determined to get inside his mate _now_ , especially as they had no children underfoot. He was nearly tempted to just bend John over on the stairs here and now; he might not have the patience to make it up to their room.

John fluttered his golden wings as he hurried up the stairs, knowing just how much he'd inflamed his alpha’s instincts. And he was looking forward to it. Though really it was all Sherlock's fault; he'd started it. As soon as they were through the flat door Sherlock was tackling him, sending them tumbling in a flurry of feathers. 

His mate was laughing, wings carefully staying wide out of the alpha’s way as he jerked open John’s jacket and then his shirt, tangling the ends around the doctor’s wrists, restricting his hands. He held the mass to the floor with one hand and picked open his button and zip with the other, pulling his cock out into the cool air of the flat and stroking it once, his eyes fluttering with the sensation. He froze that way for a moment before pulling his hand away to do the same to his mate’s jeans, a much more challenging process as he had to tug the material free of the tantalising hole leaking slick and mouth-watering scent with just the one hand. Luckily, he’d gotten plenty of experience the last few years doing just that, and seconds later, he had John’s hole, semi-loosened from two hours of teasing, exposed, and he shoved inside with a low snarl.

John cried out with pleasure, wings going submissive underneath him. He loved Sherlock barely in control of himself, slamming into him, his knot already catching on his rim. He would have spread his legs wider, but couldn't due to the material. All he could really do was moan and enjoy every second of it as he was driven into. 

Sherlock hadn’t felt this out-of-control since John had gotten stabbed in the shoulder the year beforeright in front of him, and the alpha had gone feral, nearly murdering the offender. He felt that same wildness now, the tight, slick heat of a barely-prepped omega gripping him tightly, resisting him with every thrust and pulling him back in with every jerk back of his hips. His own wings were spread wide, a dark mantle across their sitting room, an unnecessary claim that nonetheless sated the primal need that drove him from time to time. His knot was nearly expanded to capacity and he reared back, growling as he surged forward, piercing his mate simultaneously with his knot and his teeth.

Crying out, John came hard enough to black out for a moment. When he was aware it was with a moan as he felt utterly full. Sherlock was licking his bite, wings cloaking them both. John wiggled his hands free so he could smooth his hands down his alpha's arms. "I love you."

For a moment, the alpha just hummed a response, licking across the renewed mark nice and slow as his omega's hands smoothed over his wrinkled and askew shirt. He was warm and happy here, in the comfort of their home with his mate impaled on his knot and pliant below him. "I love you," he rumbled back, nuzzling under John's ear, eyes closed as he breathed deep. He really should get his omega into their bed but... Grunting with effort, not because John was particularly heavy, but because he felt lazy in the wake of his orgasm, Sherlock rolled them onto their sides, hooking a hand under the omega's knee and pulling it over his hip. The motion made John's arse shift and clench around his knot and a brief aftershock of pleasure rolled through him as they settled into place in the sitting room he'd decorated for his family.

John settled into his arms, wings meshing with Sherlock’s as they both nodded off.

**.oOo.**

Hamish’s tongue was sticking out as he examined the game board, with Uncle Mycroft on the other side, watching him with a gentle smile Hamish was pretty sure only he ever saw. He ruffled his wings a bit, glad Harriet was occupied by Grandmummy. “Papa says you’re in the government?” he asked quietly.

"I minor position, I assure you," Mycroft murmured, not wanting to disrupt his nephew's (adorable) concentration. While both his brother's offspring took after his mate in looks, the expressions they tended to make were absolutely perfect renditions of the ones Sherlock used to make when he still looked up to Mycroft. Both children weren't as intelligent as their papa and uncle had been at the same age, but they were still far above others of their age group, and whenever he was able to get some time with his nephew, Mycroft always made sure to have a strategy game on hand. For Christmas, he'd given Hamish a pristine copy of 'Diplomacy', and they were halfway through a game. It was clear that Hamish wasn't going to win, but the moves he was making thus far were ones that were making his uncle proud.

“I wanna be like you when I grow up,” Hamish admitted, making another move. “I’m not brave and strong like Harriet is.” He worried sometimes that he’d never be at good at whatever he did as a grownup as his parents. He could be painfully shy and had taken some teasing at school for it. Even Harriet didn’t know because he knew she’d go right to their parents.

"There is more to strength and bravery than a loud voice and a brazen attitude. Your sister takes after your papa that way, doesn't she?" A contemplative look crossed Hamish's face and then he nodded. "You daddy is strong and brave, isn't he?" Another look, another nod. "And he isn't loud, correct?" And again. "And would call me loud?" Now blue eyes blinked up at him and his nephew should his head. "Would you call me weak?" Now a blink of surprise and an emphatic head shake. "There you have it."

Hamish smiled at his Uncle and his wings relaxed. “Thank you.” He made his next move with a little more confidence before worrying his lower lip in his teeth. “Some of the boys at school push me around,” he admitted. He’d wanted to tell someone about it, but didn’t want his parents storming the school either.

For a long moment, the beta pondered how to respond. "I was not treated well by my classmates when I was in primary school," Mycroft imparted.

"Really? What did you do?" Hamish asked, voice excited and curious.

"I learned how to defend myself," he replied. "In more ways than one," he hinted, lifting his umbrella pointedly. His nephew's eyes went wide and his mouth formed a small 'o'. "If you are interested, there are ways I can speak to your parents so they will not suspect your true intent. Your papa is an expert in Bartitsu, and your daddy used to be rather proficient in hand-to-hand combat. It would not be unusual for you to want to pursue a similar activity."

“Even though I’m not really strong?” asked Hamish. “And I don’t want to really hurt anybody, I just want them to leave me alone.”

"You don't have to be strong for some arts," he assured, moving another piece. "In fact, there are some designed specifically to that purpose, where they use your opponent's momentum against them. However," he paused to ruffle his nephew's hair, "you don't have to actually hurt them. There are many ways to dissuade and exhaust an opponent without harm coming to yourself or them. I will help you find one that suits."

“Thank you Uncle Mycroft.” Hamish frowned as he moved his piece. “I’m going to lose.” He never won against his Uncle, but at least he wanted to try. He could talk about things with him that he couldn’t with others, and he thought maybe he understood. And Hamish did want to solve his bully problem.

"That is true. But you learn from your loss and you use what you have learned for our next game, do you not?" Hamish considered this for a moment and then nodded. "Then that is what is important." A sudden racket from the other room had them both lifting their heads.

"Papa and daddy are back," he grinned, nearly vibrating with his seat. He looked as if he was restraining himself, several glances at the game board telling Mycroft the reason why he was.

"Well, go greet them then. We can always finish later," he said.

"Thank you, Uncle Mycroft!" a golden blur shouted as it exited the room. The beta smiled and left the game as it was for next time.

John chuckled at his children. Even Hamish was fairly bouncing with excitement. Somehow they got them into their coats and then the car and headed back for Baker Street. “We’re going to bake today,” said John. “Figured we could make cookies and things. Maybe we can even bring Mrs. Hudson cookies for once.”

“I’d like that,” Hamish had snuggled against his Papa.

Harriet was in John’s lap. “She’d like that a lot.”

When they arrived back at Baker Street, Sherlock left his mate to handle their children and darted up the stairs. There was a special fridge they had gotten for just his experiments when John had gotten pregnant, and for the last week, it had also been the hiding place for another present that he'd wanted to wait for today to gift. When a scowling John and a wildly flapping Harriet and Hamish made it through the door, Sherlock had three identically sized boxes sitting on the counter wrapped in different paper. His family stopped and stared at him in surprise.

Harriet darted forward first, picking up the box and tore into it before anyone could stop her. She grinned as she saw it was a chocolate skull. “It’s amazing, Papa.”

John shook his head a bit before leaning in to kiss his mate, who was reaching into a high cupboard and pulling out molds. Of course they were bones and anatomy.

“Do we get to make chocolate?” asked Hamish, trembling with excitement.

“We do indeed,” Sherlock replied, extending a wing to curl around John and pull him to his side, dropping his head to place an absent kiss on his omega’s temple. When his mate pulled away to help the children steady themselves enough to reach the sink and wash their hands, the alpha continued to pull out the materials they needed. It was probably the first thing he’d actually gone into a Tesco for and purchased himself in years with his own card, but the fun they would have with their children today would be worth it. Hopefully. He didn’t have the same trouble with chip and pin machines that John did, thankfully.

Harriet finished first and fluttered by her dad's side, watching him. She was too big to land on his hair now, but she rested both arms on the counter, wings keeping her in place Hamish stayed on the ground on the other side until John picked him up so he could see. He wrapped a wing around Sherlock. 

The alpha had prepared for this plenty in advance, printing out instructions (and multiple copies at that) before hand, and he laid the copies out over the table. He hadn’t even laid the last sheet down before Hamish and Harriet were tearing open packaging of cocoa powder and sugar, sticking fingers dipped in powder in their mouths. An attempted intervention from his mate ended up in a food fight less than five minutes later, which would have been fine, until the butter and milk got involved and Sherlock became a victim of his family’s playings.

John was laughing so hard he was crying. The kitchen was a terrible mess, but the sight of his mate and children just _covered_ in baking supplies was worth it. Harriet had mushed a handful of butter in her brother’s hair as he bat at her with his wings. It made a shower of cocoa fly at their papa. John wiped his eyes as he pried his daughter away. “You’ve got it all in your wings, dear.” He set to preening her, hoping Sherlock would take the hint and do the same with Hamish.

Sherlock was frowning as he set about brusquely preening his son's wings. Brusquely enough that Hamish whined an annoyed "Papaaaa~" With a glare, the alpha tugged his son's feathers, but did as asked and calmed his fingers. After a few minutes, his motions eventually calmed to synchronise with his mate's, something that never failed to suffuse his chest with a comfortable, fuzzy warmth. Under their ministrations, their children slowly calmed in a typical, post-sugar crash, and Sherlock calmed in the kind of relaxation that could only come from extended time in his territory with his family.

Hamish relaxed into his Papa’s finger’s enough that he started to nod off. Harriet wasn’t far behind him. Nudging Sherlock, John carried Hamish up to the children's room and lay him in his bed, still a bit powdery. Sherlock followed suit and they crept back downstairs into their room. With a warm smile, John set to work on Sherlock’s feathers.

The alpha had originally been quite upset that more of the ingredients had ended up in his feathers than the molds, but with his mate's fingers along his wings, he couldn't muster the same annoyance as earlier. "It's been some time since I was on this side of things," Sherlock murmured. Not because John was unwilling or any other such nonsense, but usually because Sherlock was the one to start preening procedures, and he could barely finish without being overcome by the need to be inside his mate. He could feel his body relaxing under his omega's touch and his posture begin to slowly fail as his feathers were cleaned.

Leaning in, John kissed his cheek, working patiently. “You’re beautiful. We have an amazing family.” He watched his alpha relaxed further under his fingers, until he had him lay down on his stomach so he could work easier, even getting the feathers that never got preened enough, watching the way the black feathers shined as they were cleaned and settled into their proper place.

"We do," Sherlock agreed, voice slurred and body pliant against the bed. Alphas liked to pretend that they could only put someone else in this situation and never the other way around, but this alpha was in no way ashamed of himself or his mate, nor of what his mate could do to him. "And it never could have happened without you." Strong fingers slid between his feathers and pulled just right to send heat to his groin. Sherlock hummed in his throat and rolled his hips. John paused and then pulled again, sending another wave of heat and another roll of his hips. This time he moaned low and deep in his chest at the friction his pants created along his length.

John moved between his thighs and leaned over him as he worked, grinding slowly. “Is this what you want, love?” He loved his mate like this, pliant and needy. Another soft moan was all the reward and encouragement he needed, leaning in to nip the back of his throat as his own wings draped over them both. Sherlock had always encouraged his more alpha-like behavior.

“Yes,” Sherlock practically purred, lifting his hips to meet his mate’s slow grinding. A cock was pressed between his arse cheeks and he eagerly encouraged it’s hardening as he tilted his head forward, exposing the back of his neck even further. His wings lost all tension under the comfortable weight of his mate’s and a hand from his wings was wriggling under him a moment later, working at his button and zip until they came undone and his trousers and pants were tugged down his legs.

Slipping backwards, John pulled the trousers down just enough to expose his hole, then leaned in to press his tongue against it, sending another groan of pleasure through his mate. He carefully licked and pressed his tongue into him, revelling in the way his body opened for him, the way he shivered and rutted slowly against the bed. Sherlock was everything he ever needed in a mate. Finally he withdrew to a needy moan and quickly stepped into the bathroom to brush his teeth and grab the lube.

“Joooooohn,” Sherlock whined as his mate darted away. The blond head ducked back in the door from the toilet with a toothbrush in its mouth and a ‘Be quiet, Sherlock, the kids are sleeping’ glare on its face. He frowned back and slid his fingers in his mouth, bright blue eyes tracking when he pulled them back out to press them in his arse. “Finish quickly, my John,” he commanded breathlessly, grinning when his omega darted out of view again.

Really the alpha was just too much. John quickly finished and moved back to the bed, slicking himself with the lube before pulling Sherlock’s fingers free and pressing against him, pushing him down with his wings at the same time. Another moan made him clap his free hand against Sherlock’s mouth. He wriggled against John as he bottomed out. The omega nipped at the back of his neck again as he started to thrust, keeping his hand in place as he dominated his alpha, knowing how much they both wanted this.

Sherlock was rather tempted to bite his omega’s hand for keeping it clamped over his mouth, but he knew it was required; he tended to get rather vocal when John topped him, and if he got too loud, their children would come to investigate the strange noises. However, the constant nips at the back of his neck and the unrelenting pressure of his mate’s wings made his spine pleasurably weak. Slowly, calmly as he could, Sherlock pressed his tongue between two of John’s fingers, curling it around the digit and encouraging it to slide into his mouth. The only challenge in this was not biting down when his omega managed to find his prostate, and then to keep his suction light when said prostate was hit mercilessly once located.

John muted his own moans in Sherlock's hair. He kept him pinned as he chased his release, feeling the muffled cries as he struck his prostate again and again. His other hand reached around his hip and started working the thick cock. 

His clever mate knew exactly how to work his knot, stroking it this way and gripping it that way. It made him buck and writhe on the sheets, forced his omega’s cock even deeper into him as he tried to get _more_ of the the sensation around his cock and in his arse at the same time. Chasing, chasing, chasing... His orgasm was so close, so close... And then John’s teeth closed around the back of his neck and Sherlock’s eyes clenched shut, throat locking up to block all sound as he came hard, soaking the sheets below his pelvis with his come as his mate came inside him, curled tight over his body and wings pressed down hard into his.

John panted and groaned, holding himself there until he started trembling. Finally he let up on his wings and pulled out, licking the bites on Sherlock's neck a moment before rolling onto his back, completely sated. Sherlock scooted over and rested his head on his shoulder, draping them with his wing. 

“I think you and the children may be the only thing that makes this silly season tolerable,” Sherlock informed his mate, his bottom wing splayed out behind him and off the bed and his top acting as a blanket for them, more for a relaxed sense of comfort rather than any need for warmth. He curled his arms around his omega’s waist, holding him tight as the man huffed a slightly sarcastic laugh at his words.

"You're incorrigible." John kissed the top of his head. "But Merry Christmas anyway. You've done really well this year. Aside from your mother's dinner table." He smiled fondly, sleep tugging at his limbs. 

“I think I did particularly well at mother’s table,” he replied with a grin, earning a cuffing to the back of his head. “And you, my mate,” he continued to grin, swinging a leg over his omega and leaning in for a slow kiss, which John reciprocated with a suspicious glare. “You did _fantastic_!” he purred.

“Are you back up that quick?” John eyed him. “You’re terrible, love, but I wouldn’t have you any other way.” And he meant it. He reached up and ran a finger through his wings again.

“Good,” he replied, mantling his wings for his mate’s touch. “Because I would have no other than you.”

FIN

**Author's Note:**

> Please don’t forget to review and come visit [Mer](http://merindab.tumblr.com/) and [Kat](http://themadkatter13-fanfiction.tumblr.com/) on our tumblrs!


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